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WILLIAM TRUMBULL 



POEMS 



POEMS 



BY 



WILLIAM TKUMBULL 



LITCHFIELD, COISTN.: 

PRESS OF THE LITCHFIELD ENQUIRER 
1912 



76 3^^1 



By transfer 
The White House 
1913 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Evening, 1890 9 

The Miller's Song, 1891 10 

The Lover's Lament, . . . . - 1891 10 

Epithalamium, ----- March, 1891 11 

To the XlXth Century Woman on a Wheel, Dec, 1896 12 

Brother Jonathan, ---... 1896 14 

Uncle Sam's Dilemma, ----- 1897 15 

The Modern Buccaneers, - - - Dec. 25, 1897 17 

Second Version. - - - Jan., 1899 18 

Fame, ------- Dec. 20, 1897 20 

Starlight, ------- Jan., 1898 21 

Re-written, ----- 22 

Cuba, ------- Feb. 15, 1898 24 

The Priestess of Humanity, - - - Sept. 25, 1899 25 

The Boer Battle Hymn, - - - Oct. 12, 1899 26 

The Wounded Boer, - - - - Oct. 26, 1899 27 

The Invincible Armada, - - - Nov. 20, 1899 28 

Samson Britannicus, - - . - Dec. 27, 1899 28 



The Iconoclast, 

The Tale of the Sphinx, - 

Bubbles, . _ . - 

To Mj Ladv in Church, - 

A Cataclysm, 

The Survival of the Fakers, 

South American Boatman Song, 



- Aug. 3, 1903 


29 


Sept. 5, 1903 


80 


- Aug. 25, 1903 


30 


Aug. 26, 1903 


83 


June, 1908 


34 


Feb. 4, 1911 


84 


March 10, 1911 


36 


Feb. 21, 1911 


38 



Poems by William Trumbull 



EVENING 



Sweet lady-love 

The stars above 
Our loves are softly telling: 

Their tuneful spheres, 

In ravished ears, 
With heavenly music swelling. 

The horn'd moon 

Her mystic rune 
O'er sea and earth is flinging. 

While thro' the night 

Her radiance bright 
Our rapturous love is singing. 

Soft, to the trees. 

The murmuring breeze 
Witli wooing touch caressing, 

Tells of our love, 

Which from above 
Calls down e'en heaven's own blessing. 

Sweetheart, good night ! 

All slumbers light 
Around thy pillow hover! 

Sweet be Ihy sleep! 

Fond memories keep 
Of Will, thine absent lover! 



1890. 



10 POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 

THE MILLER'S SONG 

'(From the German) 

Just as the water 

The mill-wheel twirls, 

Mj little sweet-heart 
Mj senses whirls. 

She chats, caresses, 
And chides me ill, 

And laughs and changes 
Mj mood at will. 

And if I murmur 
She talks so fast; 

And her companion 
Gets cross at last. 

He rattles an answer, 
Some silly cry; 

And goes and believes her- 
He knows not why. 

But on she capers, 
Through life so gay, 

And treats the next one 
The self-same way. 

The brook is faithless, 
The maiden coy — 

O whirling mill-wheel ! 
O miller boy! 




THE LOVER'S LAMENT 

(From the Spanish) 

Like to the leaf, that, madly hurled 

Before the wind's tempestuous might, 
Unchecked, unguided in its flight, 

Is on its wayward courses whirled; 

So, by the tumult of my heart, 

I, poor unfortunate, am tossed: 

My ease dispelled, my reason lost 

A victim to love's fatal dart ! 



POEMS BY WILSiAM TRUMBULL 11 

Ah, me! thou know'st not, maid unkind, 

The griefs that rack this anguished breast; 
The aching void, the wild unrest, 

The sighs for peace it ne'er can tind ! 

These eyes that never sorrow knew, 

That mocked at weeping as but madness, 
Alas! are melting into sadness — 

And all for you, ungrateful you! 



EPITHALAMIUM 

I sent my love a tender list 

Of names both succulent and choice. 
In which New Haven tradesmen stood 

Confessed for knavish, thieving boys: 

The list, it fluttered to her feet; 

She grasped it wildly — then she said, 
''A poem from my true love sweet!' 

Alas! but this is what she read: 

^There's Hart lives over Elm Street way. 

In meats, a very worthy man: 
Asks thirty-two cents for a steak. 

And charges more, whene'er he can! 

Barnes, at the city market, too. 

Keeps tender chops, as tough as lance — 
Wood, — he's no expensive wretch : 

Will cheat you when he gets the chance! 

Pfaff, down on Church Street, has the trade 
Of rich and poor: from juiciest round 

Will cut you short a porter-house. 
Or roast, at twenty-eight the pound! 

In groc'ries, Johnson is your man, 
Corner of Court and State; I hear 

He puts no sugar in his sand, 
Nor water in his lager bier! 

For fish and sea food. State Street Foote 
Will lead the rest — a tricky soul, 

Who palms off flounders stale for fresh; 
He will bear watching — so I'm tol' I 



12 POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 

Potatoes, you will find tlio best 
At Soniers' down neai- die P. O.; 

But if of fruits you start in quest 
To City Market Judson go.' 

My love looked, wondering, from the list: 
'Is this,' she cried, 'the base-born churl 

Whose thoughts on household groceries dwell. 
When they should be on his best girl ? 

Away! away! with such a man! 

Ere I will take him to my breast ! 
Sure, he must be a chilly 'un 

Whose inmost thoughts stand thus confessed I 

Give me a good a-merry-can 

Tankerous lover; one who yearns 

For love alone, and in whose veins 
The fire of ardent passion burns! 

These Dagoes from hot southern climes 
Center their thoughts, too much, for me. 

Upon 'the n.eat that perisheth': 
Cafe frappe — afternoon tea! 

'My love must live on air alone!' 

She said: then dropped a bitter tear; 

Buried her face and sorrows both 
Within a mug of flowing beer. 



TO THE XlXth CENTURY WOMAN ONj^A WHEEL 

I. 

Evening's dusk or earliest dawn, 
Shadowy side path, mead or lawn, 
See her, graceful as a fawn. 

Gliding on her bicycle; 
While the 'old man' pumps behind, 
Red in face and short of wind, 
Puffing liard — yet 'going it blind' 

On his slow-going tricycle! 
He is in to save the race, 
Win or die — yet, what a pace! 
See! She rides — a cherub face — 

Cool as any icicle! 



POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 13 

11. 

Over bill and dale she spnrtsi 

She liaB nabbed his ^arb and shirts, 

Wears at times bifurcate skirts, 

She, the bold invader! 
Is it strange 'Salvation Maud' 
Groans at heart and cries: "O Lord! 
Come riojht off and worship God, 

Wretched masqnerader? 
Shed your 'knicks,' cravats and hats; 
Bnrn your books, your gums, your spats; 
Those wide sleeves would clothe the brats!" 

Shouts this fair crusader. 
^'Come and join our army here; 
Learn the outcast lost to cheer!" 
(Do you think, sweet reader dear, 

That these words will aid her?) 
'Nol She's whirling on the wheel, 
In a mad world's drunken reel! 
Be it woe or be it weal, 

Nothing could have stayed her! 

III. 

Yet when years their flight have ta'en, 
When the century l)loonis again, 
She may find her quest was vain 

Mockery of self-seeking! 

Back to home, and love, and God, 

In the way her mother trod. 
She will gently, sweetly plod, 

Without murmurous speaking; 
Bending o'er the cradle, where 
Nestling, rooting, in his lair, 
Thro' a wealth of golden hair, 

Blue eyes are upturning! 

Oh! the sweet, the heavenly grace 
Of that upturned baby face! 
Oh! the future of our race, 
In a mother's yearning! 



14: POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 

BROTHEK JONATHAN 

The giant of the north fell sick 

Upon a summer's day; 
Hot, raging fever parched his veins, 

His strength had ebbed away. 

Chill followed chill in quick surprise, 
Hot flushes followed fast, 

Until the anxious watchers said: 
"Alas, 'twill be his last!" • 

From fur and near the doctors came 
To see what they could do. 

Of Old School and of New School fame 
(Mebbe a quack, or two). 

Strong Dr. Big Stitch takes his pulse, 
A gold watch sternly reading: 
" 'Tis plain," says he, '4ie needs an Axe; 
This calls for generous bleeding!" 

"We of the Old School, as you know. 
Believe not in repletion; 
His income (less than his outgo) 
Demands renewed depletion!" 

Young Dr. Muck-Rake now bounds up 

With silver w^atch ('mid banter): 
"I know the cure! SimiUa 
Si'inilibiis ciLvanturP'' 



"Your sick man's suffering from graft chillt 
They're worse than croup or gout; 
Drive in more i>;rafting microbes still. 
They'll drive the old ones out ?" 

Here Dr. Speak-Soft nears the couch 

With face benign and bland 
(A pitcher tucked beneath one arm, 

A tumbler in one hand): 

"Pardon me, gentlemen — ahem! 
But here's a case, I'm sure, 
That calls for nothing stronger than 
The plain cold-water cure!" 



POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 15 

''Your patient loses strength ev.vh day 
Because he will drink whiskey; 
Just let him try what's in my jug, 
It's neither strong nor risky!" 

Others there were around the bed, 

The Doctors Step and Fetchit, 
But what they did or what they said, 

My muse could never catch it. 

An old nurse stood within the room 

(Her name was Common Sense); 
She heard the doctors fuss and fume, 

She watched them spar and fence. 

"Get out, get out!" she cried at length. 

"You're worse than any pest; 
The only cure this giant needs 
Is Best — it's only Best." 

"Leave him alone to gather strength 
From sunshine, wind, and dew; 
God's bounty spread o'er hill and field 
"Will cure this sick man, too!" 

She spoke; then turned the doctors out. 

And, moving towards the bed, 
Smoothed out the pillows, soothed his bi'ow. 

And bathed his aching head. 

And now in fitful slumbers first 

And then profound and deep. 
He slept — then 'woke like one refreshed 

From out of heavy sleep. 



UNCLE SAM'S DILEMMA . 

Out there in the broad Pacific where the coral islands lie, 
Dwells a little chap who's known on the map as Owhyhee 

or Hawaii; 
He's a little orphan beggar, friendless and all alone, 
And I'm sorely tasked, for I've been asked to adopt him for my 

own. 



16 POKMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 

Pm full to overflowing, with just that kind of ruck; 

There's Greaser, Dago, Indian, Naygur, Aleut and French 

Canuck; 
I might add, perhaps, just this one to my varied kith and kin — 
But there again's Miss Cuby of Spain — she's hollerin' to come in. 

"They tell me I must adopt him— 't if I don't that greedy Jap 
Will swaller him up like a tarrier pup — not sure as I'd care a 

rap — 
They say that William the Euthless, John Bull and Muskovite 

Mick 
Have fixed their eyes on my blackamoor prize and I've got to 

decide right quick. 

Well, now, I've asked the wise ones who gather at Washington 
In session joint to decide the point — I declare it's a knotty one! 
For they've argued the case so fully and made it so very plain 
With such wealth of law and strength of jaw, that they've fairly 
staggered my brain. 

Says one, "A good coaling station; useful outpost in case of 
war;" 

The next replies, " 'Way off shore it lies; it's altogether too far; 

To defend it in time of fighting means increased risk and ex- 
pense; 

You'll allow we're a unit now; why divide us?" — which sounds 
like sense. 

But at this point a third one rises, runs his hand through his 

wavy mop; 
These modern Solons are strong on colons, but they never will 

reach a full stop; 
He's primed with a sur-rejoinder — I only wish he'd prune it I 
"Mr. Speaker — may I ask a — How about Alaska? She's no part 

of our boasted unit !" 

^^Our population's sadly mixed; the time is hardly ripe; 

Is there pressing need to mix the breed with their variegated 

stripe!" 
So a fourth one cries and a fifth replies with a sob and a heavin' 

chest, 
Has it come to that from a Democrat! T. Jefferson and the 

Great West !" 



POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 17 

''If we don't take it now when it's easy" — says a sixth, with a 

movin'tear, 
"We'll have to fight, with all our might, for it, later on, I fear; 
We've a growing trade with Chiny and o'er all the Western Sea 
We must control or we'll spoil the role of our manifest destinee!" 

"But how will you rule your island realm? Oh, how will you 

rule?" says seven — 
A mincin' jay from Old Back Bay chuck full of mugwump leaven. 
"Let it stay a black republic; let it manage its own aifairs; 
What ! Cuba's case. Quite another face to that. Besides, who 

cares?" 

And so they go from morn till night; from rise till set of sun; 
Till I want perforce to adopt the course marked out by G. 

Washington, 
And wash my hands of the whole blamed thing — but then, that 

little brat — 
He's all alone: not a friend of his own. Great Scott ! Where 

am I at? 

I can't leave the little cove out in the cold, nor leave him to his 

fate; 
And then again, to speak quite plain, I don't want a new nigger 

state; 
I've half a mind to take him in and ship all my joblots there, 
With Piatt and Croker — his little joker — to rule. Ye godsl 

What a pair! 

They'd set the island humming to the buzz of their oiled ma- 
chine; 

Jump hard on the wight who dared show fight while they were 
King and Queen. 

They can bid the world defiance if to rule they've once resolved. 

Come here, little brat; come under my hat; the mighty problem's 
solved ! 



THE MODERN BUCCANEERS 

O'er rolling deep, where wild winds sweep, where tempest kings 

hold sway, 
From lands of snow, where north winds blow, we]smite our living 

way. 
Our booty dying nations, our guerdon people's tears. 
War lords in fight by right of might— the modern buccaneers! 



18 POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 

Rich spoils of the East call to the feast, old Chiua's dying, too. 
Like vikings bold in quest of gold, we'll loot the yellow crew; 
Shall grasping, sordid Teuton; shall covetous Muscovite 
Bag all the game, ye Saxons? Shame! Lord Jingo! 'Tis not 
right. 

We once heard tell of one — ah, hell ! a Jew of lowly birth. 
Who, dying, taught (but all for naught) that the meek should 

hold the earth. 
Forgive our scornful laughter, Lord ! Sooner, a high-caste Jew^ 
From Thy footstool's face sees swept a race, than lose a bond 

that's due. 

One truth we teach, one creed we preach, the sacred lust of pelf: 
Let the under wight i' the sorry fight get up and save himself; 
Our gospel, flaming cannon with screaming shrapnel crammed, 
Our creed is short: — The world our sport; the weaker blokes be 
damned I 

'Tis plain that He of Galilee knew not these later days — 
Their up-to-date new creed of Hate, their fin-de-siecle ways; 
Knew not our blessed doctrine: — The fittest must survive. 
The strong in fight have alone the right to hold God's earth alive. 

Poor Dampier, Drake! A sorry stake you played for, when 

from Spain 
You flung on board the galleon's hoard, sacked in the Spanish 

Main; 
Hail to the modern corsairs bold, who world-wide navies steer. 
And rob in might a people's right, while mobs, look on and cheer. 

Shall we forego, we'd like to know, the blessings manifold 
Of modern life, so free from strife, so full of joys untold: 
The thrill of murd'rous battle when under tropic suns 
We thin their ranks and mow their flanks with wondrous Gatling 
guns? 

Then here's a health to lust of wealth; here's to the world, our 

prey; 
i-rom sunset west, from th' Isles of the Blest, we smite our living 

way; 
Our booty dying nations, our guerdon people's tears; 
War lords in fight by right of might the modern buccaneers. 

Second Version 
We rove the wide seas over; thro' the broad world lies our way; 
'Mid Northern snows — where the South wind blows — we smite 
our living prey; 



POKMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 19 

Our booty, tlie weakling nations; our guerdon, the rabble's clieersr 
For we are Lords by the right of Might —the modern buccaneers. 

What! China in the looting? That rich spoil in the swag? 

God ! What is there in it, then, for lis? AVe must strike; no- 
time to lag! 

Shall the grasping German eagle or the covetous Kussian bear 

Bag all of the game, John Bull ? Oh, shame! By Jingo, 'tisn't 
fair! 

There's Jonathan across the way, he only sits and grins; 

Says the game of loot 's not worth a boot (there's a Populist 

kicking his shins); 
Yet he keeps one foot on Cuba and t' other on Hawaii; 
Bah! The pirate crew will loot them, too, if he lets his chance 

slip by! 

And again, in the Flowery Kingdom, over there by the Yellow 

Sea, 
Struts the bantam Jap (he's a sandy chap; but no match for my 

mates and me); 
He thinks he can whip creation, since the pig-tails felt his might; 
If the almond-eyed cove tackles us, by Jove, he'll be blown clean 

out of sight! 

We've heard of a Jewish peasant — least- w^ays, so the story runs. 
Who taught, some two thousand years gone by, that these dusky 

sons of guns. 
Are your, are my own brothers. Great Shylock ! ^)ur modens 

Jew 
A'iews a race with mirth wiped off from the earth, ere he'll lose a 

bond that's due! 

He must have been a back number, not on to our modern ways; 
With our up-to-date, new gospel of hate, and our jin-de-siede- 

craze; 
He couldn't have known the true doctrine: — The iittest alone 

Gurvive; 
The man who can fight has alone the right to remain on this 

earth alive! 

We preach the holy gospel of Consecrated Pelf: 

Let the under dog, in the sorry fight, get up if he can, by him- 
self ! 

We teach with thrust of sabre, mailed fist, guns with shrapnel 
crammed; 

And our creed is short : — The world, our sport; and the weaker- 
blokes be damned ! 



30 POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 

Talk of Dam pier and Drake: a riskj stake, they played, for a 

paltry gain, 
A-boarding siver galleons, sacking towns, in the Spanish Main: 
Give me the modern corsairs, who world-wide their navies steer. 
And rob in might a whole nation's right, while the mob look on 

and cheer! 

Then here's to the wide seas over; and here's to the world — our 

prey: 
From the sunset West, from the Isles of the Blest, we smite our 

living way; 
Our booty, the weakling nations; our guerdon, a people's tears: 
For we are Lords by the right of Might —the modern buccaneers! 



FAME 



'Life is something greater and better than stage excitement and admiration, as, for in- 
stance, that boy upstairs." -MARY ANDERSON DE NAVARRO 

I have listened to their plaudits with a gladdened, quick surpriae; 
I have welcomed, too, their loud acclaims with bright and shining 

eyes; 
I have trod the stage a very queen who honors lightly wears: 
Yet I value all as nothing to 'that little chap upstairs.' 

Oh, dimpled fist; bright, laughing eyes; dear wealth of tangled 

hair. 
What joy on earth, what fame, what prize, can with thy wealth 

compare? 
A joyous cry of welcome, a quick clasp from two soft arms, 
Is dearer than a world's applause, with all its lures and charms. 

Time life is richer, deeper, than the highest form of art; 
The stage is but a mockery howe'er you play your part. 
For me, the peace of quiet calm, where freed from carking cares. 
My thoughts, my prayers, can dwell upon 'that little chap up- 
stairs! 



POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULl. 2t 

STARLIGHT 

(the zeit-geist) 

In my Father's house are many mansions. John XIV, 2. God is love. I John IV, 8. 

It sweeps the trembling chords of night: 
Dark voices of the lilting breeze 
That quivering, sigh 'mid rustling trees, 
Breathe tremulous its deep delight. 

I watch the great-blue heron spring 
From darkling fen, and flap his way 
Athwart the sun's last slanting ra}^, 
Beating the air with leaden wing. 

Low in the reddening west hangs white 
The horned moon: o'er earth and sea 
Her glamour bright, her witchery, 
Deepens the mystery of the night. 

Now from a sky of silvered grey 
The twinkling stars peep shyly out 
Like children's eyes, a merry rout — 
Murmuring, I hear the Welt-Geist say, 

Oh, narrow thought of cowled head, 
That of these myriad glittering spheres 
Whose courses span the rolling years. 
Our earth alone is habited ! 

These flaming worlds that blaze above 
Proclaim a universe of suns 
Through which one plan, one purpose, runs: 
The deep unf athomed way of Love. 

Naught that love made is made for naught; 
Each hath its fixed appointed use: 

What though thou find'st the theme abstruse, 

So Love found good, and Love so wrought! 

Nor time nor space confines Love's skill; 

Love's glory is alike revealed 

In splendors of the starry field, 

In matchless wisdom of Love's will. 



-22 POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 

The infinite Love that wrought thee here 
Hath fashioned all those stars above, 
Seeking thy homage and the love 
Of spirits pure in every sphere. 

Then tell it not that here alone 
The great Creator breathes His life; 
With Him the universe is rife: 
It has one purpose — all Love's own. 

Re^written 

1 hear it on the murmuring breeze: 
The whisp'ring voices of the night 
Breathe thro' my soul its deep delight, 
' From rustling leaf and quiv'ring trees. 

I watch the great-blue heron spring 
From darkling fen, and flap his way 
Athwart the sim's last slanting ray: 
Beating the air with leaden wing. 

Low in the west, hangs clear and white 
The horned moon; o'er earth and sea 
Her spell of soft, bright witchery 
Deepens the gloom of gath'ring night. 

Now, from a sky of silvered grey 
The blinking stars peep shyly forth 
Like children's eyes; far in the north 
Gleam splendors of a dying day. 

AVhat narrow thought of cowled head 
Is this, that of these myriad spheres 
Whose courses span their rolling years, 
Our earth alone is habited ? 

Yon twinkling points that blaze above 
Proclaim a universe of suns: 
Thro' which one plan, one purpose runs. 
The deep, unfathomed way of love. 

These flaming worlds are satellites 
Eevolving 'round some larger sun; 
While with them still, appointed run 
Attendant groups of lesser lights. 



POEMS BY WILSIAM TRUMBULL 33 

Each, in its turn, a central orb, 
Around whose flaming disks of fire 
Planets invisible retire, 
Advance, and evermore revolve. 

Planets, in form and kind like ours, 
With cloud, and continent, and sea; 
With hill and valley, plain and lea. 
O'er which some snow-capped mountain towers. 

Upon whose surface lakes still fill; 
And sparkling rivers run, with sheen, 
Thro' fields of tilth and fallows green, 
From babbling brook, from tinkling rill. 

Around whose ends, the polar snows 
Grow less with summer's fiercer heats; 
Then, larger, as their sun retreats, 
And winter comes and summer goes. 

Whilst swinging down the realms of space 
With giant systems forward hurled 
In Titan strength, the mighty world 
Strides on in one vast cosmic race. 

Ah! is it strange, on this still night, 
That, gazing on the star-lit host. 
In wondering awe the mind is lost 
While fancy takes its upward flight? 

Nor time nor space conflnes Love's skill; 
His trailing glory is revealed 
In splendors of His starry fleld, 
In infinite wisdom of Love's will. 

Naught that Love made is made for naught; 
Each hath its fixed appointed use: 

What though thou find'st the theme abstruse, 

So Love found good, and so Love wrought ! 

The infinite Love that wrought thee here 
Hath fashioned all those stars above; 
He seeks thy homage and the love 
Of spirits pure in every sphere. 



24 POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 

Then, tell it not that liere alone 
The dear Creator breathes sweet life; 
With Him the universe is rife: 
It has one purpose, all Love's own. 



CUBA 



Thou art little 'mongst the nations, yet thine e]|«s with tears are 

wet; 
Thou hast fallen among robbers; and they're not departed yet; 
Thoft they've stripped, and beat, and scourged thee; though for 

justice thou hast cried, 
Thou hast seen the priest and Levite pass thepon the other side. 

Is there none to show thee mercy; art thou only food for mirth; 
Has the god of quick Compassion vanished from this dreary 

earth; 
Is there none to bind thy wounds up, pouring on them oil and 

wine; 
None to raise thee, none to tend thee, fairest daughter of thy 

line? 

Must we have a fresh Armenia lying bleeding at our doors, 
While in vain a slaughtered people helplessly our aid implores; 
Shall the children of the pilgrims hear,'unmoved, their frenzied cry? 
Let them rise in righteous wrath and smite the invader hip and 
thigh. 

Not much longer, not much longer, shall the wail of deep de- 
spair, 

Shall the cry of starving orphan, and of widow, rend the air. 

Not much longer, ere red battle to its loud din gives surcease, 

And throughout the wasted Island breathes once more, a lasting 
peace. 

Thou hast taught us. Lord, the lesson, how the one Samaritan 
Overstepped of old race narrow bounds to save a fellow man; 
Let not lust of race, nor mammon, paralj^ze our strong right arm, 
For the strong that save the weakling, save themselves best from 
all harm. 

It is coming, it is coming in 'the glory of the Lord,' 

He has 'sounded forth His trumpet,' He has 'girded on His 

sword.' 
He is calling to His armies to make haste across the sea, 
There to work His righteous sentence — there to set the prisoner 

free. 



POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 25 

THE PRIESTESS OF HUMANITY 

In my hands I hold your future of unprofitable days, 

All the crafts that ye possess are at my call; 

Your impartial grave historian late has learned to speak nay 

praise; 
Your great artist yields to my imperious thrall. 

When your wolfish passions leaping bear all formal barriers 

down; 
When your days of ninety-three run crimson red, 
I am then the living symbol of your Reason whom ye crown 
With a blood red cap of License on my head. 

When in days once more grown formal ye would seek to cloak 

my shame 
Lest its nakedness offend Decorum's god, 
To grim want, to cant's injustice, not to me impute the blame 
If I flaunt it wide and blazon it abroad. 

Who am I? What ye have made me. An unthinking child 

half grown 
Flung by fate upon a world to feed its lust; 
In God's sooth I take my vengeance, scattering wide what ye 

have sown, 
And I'll hate you till I gnaw my dying crust. 

Was it man or God foreseeing such offences needs must be. 
Launched His woe upon the man by whom they came? 
'It were better with a mill-stone ye were cast into the sea 
Than My little ones through you should come to shame.' 

Man or God, our noblest spirit, with a single eye to read 

The full meaning of a weeping Magdalen; 

That the strong should spoil the feeble, should exploit the 

weaker's need. 
Is the law of apes and tigers — not of men. 

Whilst with infinite human pity He our frailties stooped to see, 
How he scourged with living flame your fancied great! 
Not the outcast, but the spoiler, the devouring Pharisee 
'Woke the lightnings of his wrath, and scorn, and hate! 



2Q POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 

THE BOEK BATTLE HYMN 

THE XIXTH CENTURY PURITAN 

Our strength is in our God of Hosts, 
Our times are in His band, 

The wrath of man that idly boasts — 
We fear not in the Rand. 

From farming dale, from soil and loam, 
We're coming, God of might, 

The ramparts of our mountain home 
To shield; guard Thou the right ! 

Let Albion's painted men of lath 
Loud vaunt their short-lived power; 

Shall the}^ escape God's day of wrath, 
God's swift, consuming iiour? 

Remember how in Alpine glen, 
The proud Burgundian host 

He shattered, when the mountain men 
Held God their simple boast. 

Remember how, by Kaseby's fords 

The vaunting Cavalier 
He made as stubble to the swords 

Of them that knew God's fear. 

Remember, too, at Laing's Nek 
How fierce, with downward thrust. 

He drove the mammon-seekers back 
And rolled them in the dust. 

IS'o pomp of wealth, no might of gold 

Can overthrow our God; 
We are the chosen of His fold; 

His instrument, His rod. 

His hand shall speed each missile hurled, 

Unerring in its flight; 
His eye doth mark our burgher world, 

His arm shall guard the right ! 

October 12, 1899— War broke out between England and the Transvaal. 



POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 

THE WOUNDED BOEK 

Comrades, let me rest a little 

Ere my life's strength ebbs away; 

We have fought a gallant battle, 
We have won a glorious day. 

See these dumb lips gaping widely, 
Naught can staunch these wounds that bleed; 

Die I for a fool's ambition. 

Slain to glut a rich man's greed. 

Nevermore shall little children 
Eun my homeward steps to greet, 

Nevermore shall loving housewife 
Clasp my neck with arms so sweet. 

Yet, God knows, I bear no rancor 

'Gainst our all too gallant foe; 
They were but the pawns and pieces 

Of the Masters of the show. 

'Mid the lurid hell of battle, 

Proudly brave, they fought and died; 

Never quailed, ne'er ran to cover 
Like the meaner crew that lied. 

You remember well at Farquhar's 

How we helped the stricken foe; 
How we brought them food and water, 

How we staunched their life-blood's flow? 



They would (and I, dying, say it) 

Do as much our lives to save: 
For the heart of man in battle 

Knows no mahce 'mongst the brave. 

Comrades, I am dying, dying; 

Naught can staunch these wounds that bleed; 
Die I for a fool's ambition, 

Slain to glut a rich man's greed. 



28 POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 

THE INVINCIBLE ARMADA 

We are swinging down the Mersey with a martial host on board, 

And our souls are fairly thirsting for the fray; 

Lyddite shells are poisoned weapons — gunwale deep we're with 

them stored; 
We must teach those simple burghers how to slay. 

We are but a single unit of that empire whose bright sun 
Never sets upon a realm of endless day, 
We outnumber our opponents by a gallant three to one; 
We must teach those canting Dutchmen how to pray. 

Father Kruger, Father Kruger, it is time to say your prayers, 
Else the God in whom you trust is very clay. 
Have you seen the rising market in our noble Kaffir shares? 
We must teach those stupid yokels who's to pay. 

Scat! you little Dutch republics! When the British lion roars 
It is wisdom's part to scatter from his way — 
We are egging on the *niggers' to attack those beastly Boers; 
We must teach those peasant farmers that's our way. 

God of wealth ! That stolid Kruger smokes his pipe upon his 

stoop, 
Says our boasting is but senseless asses' bray? 
Watch us hit him! We will land him and his God right in the 

soup! 
We must teach those Boers the blessings of our sway. 



SAMSON BRITTANNICUS 

1 have wantoned with the Philistine till shorn of strength and 

sight, 
Cruel foes now taunt and mock me with rude jeers. 
Yet my hands are on their moneyed temple's pillars: bowed with 

might, ^ 
I can bring it clattering down about their ears! 



POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 29 

THE PHARISEE 
In Society — 

^^'"''f^^l^^V^^^^^^''^ luimblj thank Thee Pm do bounder 
^^"^ j^^^^^^^/--^^"cJ^beck thoroughbreds should always lire 

^^"^IjllSt^Yd^-^'' '""'"^^^ ''^'*^' ^^'"^ common vulgar herd must 

Pnl^HntT^^r^t' ^V^^^ 'rT" ^"^ '"^^ ^^ ^.>^ P^^^d heart); 

Purbhnd Lord, why didst Thou place Me 'mongst the lesser 
social lights, 

When with high-born dukes I might have known still more ex- 
clusive rights? 

In Business — 

Thi^young Smith's a clever genius rising fast -but what an ass- 
(Without wealth he wants to ape my style of living) 

Well he knows, the silly idioUie can't travel in my class- 
(His conceit is something 'p§:5t forgiving); 

Ah, if only niggard Fate wSuld let Me roll up half a million 

How Id jar that purse-proud Jones who, dash it all, is worth a 
billion! 

In Politics — 

Bigheart Tim, ward politician, our disgusting local Boss, 

(^ates confound the fellow's loud, familiar chaff). 
When he sees Me has the impudence our crowded streets to cross 

(^|aps My back and calls Me Shorty, with a laugh); 
Well, my boy, without his aid, you know, you never could ad- 
vance 
Your small politics through struggling days: you'll shake him 
the first chance! 

In Ethics — 

Highly cultured, altruistic, ethical Societies— 

(Long-haired gulls, adoring dupes of New Thought schools). 
We would proudly claim attention as unique, rare prodigies 

(In this bigot world of superstitious fools): 
From blind Philistines without our pale who sit in blackest 
night, 

Heavenly Fates forfend Us, All We ask is reason, sweetness, 
light! * • 



30 poems by william trumbull 

In Literature — 

'Tis a world of lies and humbug: 'tis a world of lust and greed; 
(Where the weak, through fear or sloth, pay blood-stained- 
thrall), 
Love and justice, Truth and mercy — these are but the dreamer's 
screed — 
(We sophisticated worldlings know it all): 
Sex-mad slaves, transformed by Circe into brutal avid cynics. 
Strange vice shrieks beneath the scalpels in Our literary clinics? 



THE ICONOCLAST 

A PRAYER OF THE TRUTH-SEEKER 

To smash false idols 'ere I die, 

To smite down shams and vested wrong, 
To own my soul, to scorn a lie, 

To be both wisely sane and strong: 
Grant me, O Truth, Thy clear-eyed spirit, fearless,. 

proud and free, 
Grant me the joy of striking one stout yeoman. 
blow for Thee! 



THE TALE OF THE SPHINX 

I tell of the land and the people. 
The splendors of Ta-raeh and Ta-res, 
Of Memphis, proud Thebes and rich Tanis. 
Sweet was the life of my people. 
Fair were their white habitations: 
Houses, with pleasant verandahs, 
Dotted the face of the landscape; 
Vineyards, and gardens with flowers; 
Orchards with fruit heavy laden, 
Barns where rich grains lay and ripened. 

Sweet was the life of my people, 
Who dwelt in this pleasant Nile valley. 
Music and dancing and feasting. 



POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 31 

Playing of harp, flute and cymbal, 
Gladdened the hearts of my children. 
Parties of gallants and ladies 
Meeting in vinous carousal; 
Eallet-girls twirling and dancing; 
Wrestlers, ball-tossers and fakirs; 
Throwei'S of knives at a marker; 
Dice-men and thimble-rig sharpers; 
Dolls made of wood, for the chikhen; 
Curious carved boxes and chess-men. 

Clusters of cities like garlands 
Dotted this pleasant Nile valley. 
Statues colossal like emerald. 
Carved in the fashion of jewels; 
Brilliantly colored mosaics; 
Gems of cut glass and of ony.x. 
Can ye excel their glass workers 
With the craft of your labor in Venice? 
Their spinners, their weavers, their dyers, 
Well skilled in the rare use of mordants? 
Their makers of paper, of blow-pipes, 
Their tanners of hide and of leather, 
Their carpenters, masons and miners. 
Their farmers and sailors and traders? 
They were workers in gold and in silver, 
They were carvers in wood and in granite, 
They were patrons of wigs and of shaving; 
They were wearers of shoes and of sandals. 
While their women all clad in loose garments^ 
Wore finger-rings, armlets and ear-rings, 
Gold necklaces, anklets and bracelets; 
They had vases for ointment, and mirrors, 
They had needles and combs for the household; 
They were skilled in the use of the passport. 

Martial and solemn procession 

Gladdened the hearts of my children; 

Soldiers with maces and axes, 

Marched to and fro through the country, 

Sounding their drums and their trumpets. 

Bowmen and slingmen and scalers 

With boomerangs, shields, spears and daggers. 

Clad all in mail in their chariots 



POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 

Gallantly rode the proud horsemen, 
Waving their standards and pennants. 

Where can je match their proud temples 
Hewn in one block out of granite? 
Their obelisks, pyramids, sphinxes? 
Such as ye gladly would borrow 
To enhance and enrich your dull cities? 
Hard by the Libyan desert 
Patient they reared their fair column: 
The plinth of the pillar was Me-nes; 
The shaft of the column was Ramses. 
Would ye believe should I tell 
Of the splendors and glories of Eamses, 
Head of the conquering Hyksos, 
Master and patron of Joseph? 
They, the Bedowins of the desert, 
Hated as herdsmen and Semites, 
Shepherds, whose kings dwelt at Tanis, 
Eolled the swift tide of invasion 
O'er the rich lands of the Delta; 
Spread till their conquering armies 
Camped on the banks of the Tigris. 

Cradle of art and of science, 
Heie all the world went to college, 
Moses, who gave you religion; 
Pythagoras, lover of wisdom; 
Herodotus, father of history; 
Plato, the prince of Greek thinkers. 
Here were earth's first geometricians. 
Writers, astronomers, poets. 
Merchants, anatomists, doctors. 
Chemists, designers, musicians. 
Architects, sculptors and painters. 
Scholars and keen rhetoricians. 
Solemnly grave and religious, 
Trained in the craft of the schoolmen, 
They haunted their temples of worship; 
With prayer, invocation, thanksgiving. 
With sacrifice, incense, libation. 
Chaplets and flowers of the lotus. 
Baskets of fruit, and sweet ointment 
In vases of rare alabaster, 



POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 33 

They willingly laid on the altars, 

While the priests slowly swung the rich censers. 

Fair were their solemn processions, 

Wending their way through the valley 

To the turreted tombs of their princes; 

Bearing their shrines to the temples 

With staves, passed through rings, on their shoulders; 

Arks like to that of the Hebrews, 

Holding the sacred sheckinah 

Solemnly spread and o'ershadowed 

By the wings of the goddess of wisdom 

Who hovered in rapt contemplation 

O'er the shell of the dread scaraboeus. 

Here they implored stern Osiris, 

Aramon strong Ra, and young Horos, 

Ptah, Mut, Khem, Isis, and Typhon, 

Kneph, or the spirit creative. 

Gone is the life of my people 

Who dwelt in this pleasant Nile valley. 

Where are their fail habitations. 

Their music and dancing and feasting. 

Their garlanded clusters of cities, 

Their handicrafts, statues and idols? 

Where are their martial processions. 

Their proud haunts of science and learning. 

Their temples of marble and granite. 

Their service of love and religion? 

— Ask of the sands of the desert. 

Spirits of heaven incarnate, 
They sank to the lusts of their bodies; 
Slaves to their greed and their passions, 
They cringed before wrongful injustice; 
Land of the serf and the debtor, 
Reared high on slavery's shackles. 
Founded on social injustice. 
Slowly it crumbled and vanished. 



BUBBLES 

Two bubbles dancing on a stream; 

(Ah! but the river runs deep, runs strong!) 
Met in the sunlight's golden gleam; 

Idly they floated along. 



Qi POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 

"How empty is life!" one bubble it cried; 

(Ah! but the river runs deep, runs strong!) 
"How meaningless, too!" tlie other replied, 

As they joined the rallying throng. 

Both bubbles, they kissed, they blended, they died;: 
(Ah! but the river runs deep, runs strong!) 

Who heeded their loss? Not the deep flowing tide. 
He alone who observed, wrote their song. 



TO MY LADY IN CHURCH 

Sweet Pagan, wheresoe'er thou art 
Is to my soul a templed shrine; 

Where wandering mind and faithless heart, 
Feel the strong touch of Love divine. 

I watch thy bended head in prayer, 
Thy mien devout, thine upward glance; 

The ringlets clustering in thy hair. 
But serve the more my soul to entrance. 

Thy dainty spirit answers mine; 

I gaze and gaze on thy dear face, 
The visible and outward sign 

Of thy deep inward spiritual grace. 

With thee 1 rise, with thee I kneel 

In self-dethroned humility. 
Content, if I thy presence feel. 

At peace, if near thee I may be! 



A CATACLYSM 

Brave Sir Thomas Catkin 
Gazed across the moor; 

He was standing watching 
By his castle door. 

"Where's the caitiff Villain 
That would steal my wife? 
I will have his heart's blood 
Though it cost my life!" 



POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 35 

Mrs. Tabby Catkin ^ 

Standing by his side. 
Likewise scanned the moorland, 

Looked demure and sighed: 

"Ah, my dear Sir Thomas, 
Why this sndden mood ? 
Well you know I've promised 
To be very good!" 

On the far horizon 

Charging o'er the plain, 
See the young Grimalkin 

Spur with loosened rein. 

He is in the saddle. 

Brandishing his knife; 
He has vowed to win her 

On the field of strife. 

Now, he's crossed the moorland, 

Reached the castle door, 
Challenging Sir Thomas 

With a deafening roar: 

"Come out, villain Caitiff, 
Quick produce thy wife; 
Or I'll have thy heart's blood 
Though it cost my life!" 

In the mighty conflict^ 

Both, alas! were slain, 
Filling Mrs. Catkin's 

Heart with bitter pain. 

On the lonely housetop. 

There she sits, boo hoo! 
Mourns her young Grimalkin 

— Brave Sir Thomas, too! 



^ POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 

THE SURVIVAL OF THE FAKIRS 

The Angle Saxon world is infested with quacks — John Morlcy.. 
OPENING CHORUS 

Winnowed out by stern selection through long years of toil and 
struggle, 
We, Life's conquerors, proud survival of the Fit, 
To a gaping, wondering public, Evolution's hopeless juggle 
Will make plain: — 
It's half Chicane, 
Half mother wit. 

( Vulpine lawyer creeps stealthily to footlights and sings) 
Moneyed interests, dark and sinister; greedy trusts with threat- 
ing maw; 
Polyps, Cinched Crooks, Octopi and Tainted Wealth: 
If I teach the amusing Brotherhood how best to evade the law, 
Do you think 
I slave and swink 
Just for my health? 

CHORUS 

( Wealthy malefactor stalks forth) 

The gay flippant bantering trifler who's just made his bow to you, 

Says he taught me to evade the plaguey law; 
I'll compound, O long-eared public; I'll endow a school or two, 

If the Fool 

Will only rule 

And hold his jaw. 

CHORUS 

{Intellectual highbrow minces down) 

Though engaged in Education of a high and lofty kind 

I, too, "crook the pregnant hinges of the knee. 
Where rich Thrift may follow fawning" (simple public) for I find, 

It does pay 

For Alma Ma- 

Ter and for me. 

CHORUS 

^Political lowbrow rushes forward) 

Howly, Guff! Wot's dat yer givin' us? Aw, go chase your- 
selves away! 
Me? I'm fer me bloomin' pocket all de time; 



POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 37 

Drat your public, mollycoddles, milksops, dudes and quitters — sayl 
But I'm husky; 
I'll have whuskey — 
Got a dime? 

CHORUS 

{Medical charlatan steps hrishly ujp) 

When fell, dread appendicitis caused the public's blood to freeze, 

Other quacks, with bogus nostrums pilled their flocks; 
But I cut my rich muts open; charged resounding, whacking fees! 

Unsuccess? 

No! Er — well — yes! 

They died of shock. 

CHORUS 

{Literary hack sidles dovm) 

I write strangely solemn pinle, brain-fag editorialene. 

Touting puffs for worthless scheme, or book, or play; 
With my wierd, blood-curdling lies I stuff a muck-rake maga- 
zine! 

Yes, I do. 

And fool you, too; 

I'm out for pay. 

CHORUS 

{Neuritic specidator jphmges forward) 

Here! young man, you up and hustle; this blamed thmg is bound 

What d'you say— the market's now with rubbish rammed? 
Cut it out; that's hifalutin'; gee! I've got to get the dough; 
What's that Cub? 
Hey? What? The pub- 
Well— I'll— be— damned ! 

CHORUS 

{Lying explorer lurches to front) 

I'm a scientific bounder who has caught the public s eye. 

And I'm working it for all that I am worth; t, ^ m 

Me a Bromide? and a poor one? Ha! Don't know: I m devil- 
ish sly! 

Watch me ad- 
Yertise a cad 
O'er all the earth. 



POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 



CHORUS 



{Hysterical clergyman capers to footlights) 

Here behold the prince of fakers; cheek of brass and iron jaw; 

Spouting nonsense that I don't believe myself: 
Scoffers laugh to see my antics 'fore the Altar, when the Law 

I defame, 

But, just the same, 

I got the pelf. 

CLOSING CHORUS 

We're a jolly crowd of parasites; not a precious doubt of it, 

Faking for our Judas living night and day: 
Ere a few short years have vanished we shall all be out of it. 

But our Tribe, 

O, mocking scribe, 

Shall live alway. 



SOUTH AMERICAN BOATMAN SONG 

Where the lordly Orinoco joms the noble Amazon, 
From the turbid Cassiquiari to the heights of Maranon; 

Past the swelling, flooded llanos, o'er the parched and shrivelled 

plains. 
Thro' the palms and vinehuug selvas drenched by endless tropic 

rains; 

Where Atrato's fern tree forests line the banks on either side; 
Down the Magdalena Kiver watch our heavy balsas glide. 

Are you tired of city longings; of its husks hast had thy fill? 
Join us on the San Francisco in the highlands of Brazil; 

Where the bitter sweet cassava, where the cane and cotton grow. 
Where the fragrant coffee blossoms make the campos white like 
snow. 

Join us on the Essequibo foaming full, now flowing free; 
Or the pampas where La Plata grandly rolls to meet the sea; 

Where the swelling Paranahiba flows into the l*arana, 
As we sail toward where Gran Chaco hangs aloft our guiding 
star. 



POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 39 

Would yonr soul commune with l^ature; would your heart her 

stern grip feel? 
Join us on the higher reaches of the foaming Guayaquil; 

Skirting past the frowning Andes, where on high like giant 

shrouds 
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi, with their white hoods touch the clouds. 

We have seen volcanoes smoking as our heavy rafts passed by, 
Molten rocks and lava belching from the flanks of old Sangay; 

We have seen the country shaken by the giant iu his lair, 
We have watched the black stream rising seventeen hundred feet 
in air. 

Past Sorata, Illimani, we have wandered far and wide, 
Seen the alpaca and the llama browsing on the mountain side; 

Past the western silver mountains, till at length in old Peru, 
Cuzco, city of the Incas, burst upon our wondering view. 

Titicaca's brackish waters we have tasted 'mid the snows; 

We have seen huge Aconcagua looming thro' the sunset glows; 

Atacama's rainless desert skirting wide, we gaily go 

Down thro' pleasant fertile valleys to the plains of Copiapo; 

Or, if tired with heavy travel, there is anything we lack. 

We can find our rest and healing on the pebbly-banked Rimac. 

Freemen of those noble rivers, owning neither land nor pelf. 
Slave to no one, not e'en Mammon, living for our truer self. 

We, a crowd of lusty boatmen, floating on the evening tide, 
Stemming hard the brimming current, here at anchor safely ride. 



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